Viroth's Hotel

There’s no other way to say it. Arriving at Viroth’s is like stepping into a David Hockney painting. Sunlight cutting wavy paths through the swimming pool; smooth lines, curved glass, and a quantity of palm leaf that feels like mainlining the world’s most sacred feeling: I. Am. On. Holiday.

I look at Mrs Smith. At this point, we’ve been travelling for 23 hours. She worked an all-nighter before we left, and not a fake all-nighter, an all-all-nighter, poor bean. But I look at her now, and Lord how fates have changed. On one side, she’s being handed a lemon eucalyptus hand towel, and on the other, a tamarind and honey sour that is still hovering around the Top Five Drinks I’ve Had In My Life.

It only gets better. You know that feeling when you start a book, and you realise it might be the best book ever written and that you can relax? Arriving at Viroth’s is also like that. It feels instantly like you’re in safe hands. Good hands. God hands.

It’s Mrs Smith’s first non-work related holiday in about a decade. Within minutes (I counted), she is sprawled, not only on one sun-lounger, but on two. Cocktail in hand, her book forgotten, she is a portrait of happiness. ‘I feel like Don Draper,’ she says. She’s totally right. If Don were real, this is definitely where he’d hang out. A paradise of peak Sixties cool – all teak and terrazzo rather than Formica. (The terrazzo, by the way, is smoky black and made with ruby-ish local stone – I took so many pictures of it it was embarrassing for everyone.)

It genuinely feels like an affront to shut my eyes, because everywhere I look there’s something beautiful. Dusty pink velvet mid-century armchairs. Banana leaves so wide you could use them as a blanket. Antiquities and curiosities that the French owner Fabien has collected over the years. Shady reading corners with Majorelle blue sofas. Pool towels rolled like pain au raisins. Black and white photos of Jackie O’s 1967 tour of Angkor Wat: elephants, parasols and knock-out sunglasses. All of this with bright waves of citronella in the air, and the comforting purr of retro ceiling fans.

And that’s before we even get to our room, a place so perfect we took to talking to it. ‘Hello, room.’ ‘Goodbye, room.’ ‘I miss you, room.’ Yes, turns out it’s possible to miss a place even when you’re in it.

Some very fine hours later, we drag ourselves away to see our first temple. The concierge points us in the direction of Pre-Rup: lesser-visited but high up enough to catch as big a pink sky at sunset as possible. A tuk-tuk pulls up outside. And so we meet Mr Chum. He wears a helmet emblazoned with the word ‘Lucky’, and he was kind and safe and we loved him. It’s the first time I’ve ever been in a tuk-tuk and I love that too.

We whip through the streets of Siem Reap and into the jungle with what feels like an animated postcard on all sides. Long-legged chickens and equally modelesque palm trees. Roots like monkey tails and road-side stalls selling petrol out of Johnny Walker and Fanta bottles.

Pre-Rup is sublime, like all of Viroth’s tips. Honestly, on my return to London, whenever city panic has struck me, I’ve just shut my eyes and thought of Viroth’s smiling concierge. And later that evening, after dinner at Viroth’s sister restaurant (banana blossom salad, say no more), their magic strikes again. It’s just started to pour but the night porter can tell that Mrs Smith is still hankering for another adventure. ‘The princesses must go out!’ he declares, and no sooner than the words have left his mouth, umbrellas appear above our heads and we’re what feels like teleported to Pub Street, Siem Reap’s main drag, with its baby pink neon lights, bars on wheels and two dollar foot massages. (We have one. I cannot for the life of me stop laughing. Ticklish feet. Very ticklish feet.)

The only conceivable problem with Viroth’s is that Siem Reap is a place with a lot to see, and most of the time, you will not for the life of you want to leave the hotel. But, if you are forced to spend your day viewing 12th-century temples then you can at least conciliate yourself with late nights at the poolside bar for a Khmer Collins and some peanuts. And because it’s Viroth’s, not just any old peanuts. They’re roasted then bounced through sugarcane and lemongrass.

It feels almost traumatic to leave. Mrs Smith paints the balcony of our room (by which I mean, she whips up a watercolour, rather than attempts to redecorate) and in the days that follow we talk about Viroth’s so much, it’s almost like he’s become our third travelling companion. But anyway, if it feels traumatic to leave, because it’s Viroth’s, we leave in absolute style. Through the foliage of the front door, we spot our ride – a 1962 classic Mercedes, forest green and polished to the nines, with a cream leather lining and a Phnom Penh number plate. We leave feeling just like two Jackie O’s, waving, pretty much crying – and just like that we drive out of the painting…